“Bring in some,” she called.

When the work was done for the morning, Mrs. Motherwell went up the narrow stair way to the little room over the kitchen to gather together Polly’s things.

She sat on Polly’s little straw bed and looked at the dismal little room.  Pearl had done what she could to brighten it.  The old bags and baskets had been neatly piled in one corner, and quilts had been spread over them to hide their ugliness from view.  The wind blew gently in the window that the hail had broken.  The floor had been scrubbed clean and white—­the window, what was left of it—­was shining.

She was reminded of Polly everywhere she looked.  The mat under her feet was one that Polly had braided.  A corduroy blouse hung at the foot of the bed.  She remembered now that Polly had worn it the day she came.

In a little yellow tin box she found Polly’s letters—­ the letters that had given her such extravagant joy.  She could see her yet, how eagerly she would seize them and rush up to this little room with them, transfigured.

Mrs. Motherwell would have to look at them to find out Polly’s mother’s address.  She took out the first letter slowly, then hurriedly put it back again in the envelope and looked guiltily around the room.  But it had to be done.  She took it out again resolutely, and read it with some difficulty.

It was written in a straggling hand that wandered uncertainly over the lines.  It was a pitiful letter telling of poverty bitter and grinding, but redeemed from utter misery by a love and faith that shone from every line: 

My dearest polly i am glad you like your plice and your misses is so kind as wot you si, yur letters are my kumfit di an nit. bill is a ard man and says hif the money don’t cum i will ave to go to the workus. but i no you will send it der polly so hi can old my little plice hi got a start todi a hoffcer past hi that it wos the workhus hoffcer. bill ses he told im to cum hif hi cant pi by septmbr but hi am trustin God der polly e asn’t forgot us. hi ’m glad the poppies grew. ere’s a disy hi am sendin yu hi can mike the butonoles yet. hi do sum hevry di mrs purdy gave me fourpence one di for sum i mide for her hi ad a cup of tee that di. hi am appy thinkin of yu der polly.

“And Polly is dead!” burst from Mrs. Motherwell as something gathered in her throat.  She laid the letter down and looked straight ahead of her.

The sloping walls of the little kitchen loft, with its cobwebbed beams faded away, and she was looking into a squalid little room where an old woman, bent and feeble, sat working buttonholes with trembling fingers.  Her eyes were restless and expectant; she listened eagerly to every sound.  A step is at the door, a hand is on the latch.  The old woman rises uncertainly, a great hope in her eyes—­it is the letter—­the letter at last.  The door opens, and the old woman falls cowering and moaning, and wringing her hands before the man who enters.  It is the officer!